


Days in the Life

by kalisgirl



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Post-Series, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-16
Updated: 2012-06-16
Packaged: 2017-11-07 20:51:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalisgirl/pseuds/kalisgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two days in the life of Declan MacRae - before we met him and after it all ended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Days in the Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lferion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/gifts).



> Written as part of the Not Read for Primetime Challenge. A present for lferion, who writes wonderful Declan stories.
> 
> I do not own Sanctuary or its characters (if I did, Declan would have been in every episode), but I did make up a few OCs and abnormals of my own.  
> Also - has not been beta'd, so all apologies for errors of canon or writing.

**0600**

_Then_  
Sunlight – artificial, mind – on the eyelids. Groan, roll over, admit it’s morning. Somehow jumping out of bed was a lot easier ten years ago. Now it’s all about a good stretch before sitting up.

The next steps are routine to the point of mindless. Strip, shower, clean teeth, shave, dress. Same thing, day in, day out. It’s good that way. Time to plan the day, think about the mission, meetings, paperwork, what-have-you.

Then coffee. Not terribly British, James teases. But time in the service teaches you an appreciation for caffeine – in the right doses – that can never be unlearned. Eggs, two, soft-boiled. Toast soldiers, like mum made. James mocks you about them, too, between impossible crossword clues and fantastical stories. Breakfast with James may be irritating, but it’s never dull.

_Now_  
Sunlight – artificial, still – on the eyelids. Groan, roll over, admit it’s morning. Jumping out of bed is completely out of the question, since you just fell into it three hours ago. Stretch the kinks out before prying yourself off the mattress.

The next steps are blessedly mindless. Strip, shower, shave, clean teeth, dress. Same as ever, except today the soap is scratchy and doesn’t lather, the razor is from the turn of two centuries ago, and the clothes are loose, made of an unidentifiable material, and brown. At least concentrating on the strangeness of it all stops you from thinking of the strangeness of the past few weeks.

Then… well, God knows what it is, but it’s not coffee. It seems to have the same effect, so you ignore the fact that it tastes like stewed weeds. James would have hated it. For a moment you wish he were here so you could see his look of politely hidden distaste. Truly, though, you’re glad he isn’t here to see how far the Sanctuary network has fallen.

* * *

**0800**

_Then_  
Meetings. Endless bloody meetings, some days. James shoulders the worst of the paperwork, but he claims the meetings are part of your ‘training.’ Since the man is working hard at immortality, training a replacement seems rather ridiculous. James's answer is that ‘one must always have a contingency plan.’ Which, fair, but it’s a waste of your skills, video-conferencing.

In truth, he hates meetings as much as you do. He’d rather be in his lab, tinkering around. You’d rather be on missions, putting out fires. So when he’s in the middle of a project, you take on a few international chin-wags. He makes it up to you with an interesting mission or a few extra days liberty.

At least the first meeting of the day is always you, James, Simon, and Dr. Molly. You’ve been a team for ages. You fit. James and Molly deal with the abnormals. James and Simon create mad tech. James pokes his nose into your mission planning to tell you random pieces of history about where you’re going and what sort of kit you’ll need to manage the abnormals when you get there. Meetings with James, Si, and Mol are like tea at home, complete with squabbles and occasional thrown cushions. It’s the best way you can think of to start your day.

_Now_  
The day starts with meeting. Not entirely surprising - it's a Sanctuary. A hyperactive bird-winged woman comes to fetch you. She twitters on about her children. You stare in amazement at the cave walls towering above your head. The crystalline roof allows actual sunlight to filter onto your face. From the intensity of the sun, you estimate this cave is a few hundred miles north of the now-destroyed Old City Sanctuary.

Before you can take in more, the bird-woman – Sheila? – leads you into a building and to a glass walled meeting room. The crowd's a mix of Sanctuary folk, Hollow Earth abnormals, and allies from all over. You spot Yusuf and Pili talking at one end of the table.

Someone hands you a tablet. The screen saver is a familiar building and you search the room for Old City Sanctuary faces. Foss is there, so’s the vampire, and Kate’s sitting with her Herusan fiancé at one end of the room. At the head of the table, Will Zimmerman.

You saw this coming. He wasn’t the one who called you in – the New York jet just showed up and you were taken on board – but you knew in your gut that he was behind this. You had learned to trust Zimmerman, but now you're not sure about him. Just two weeks ago he was working with the FBI and punching Magnus. Now he’s back, treating the Sanctuary heads like they are at his beck and call. This is not a good way to start the day.

* * *

**1100**

_Then_  
Solitude. Blessed solitude. Some days, when there’s no mission, no politics, no meetings, you all get to escape for a bit. James likes a walk, quiet time to observe people. Simon is fascinated by the digital signage that is blanketing London (you’re worried that you’ll wake up one day to every video billboard in the City playing a different episode of vintage EastEnders). Molly uses her spare hours to escape to the roof and read bodice rippers.

You stay inside, in the depths of the Sanctuary, to relax in your own way. First, traditional weapons. Walther P99 – 16 rounds. Check target. The classic M1911 – 7 rounds. Check target. Then Simon’s toys: stun gun, pulse gun, pulse cannon, strange electric net-whatsit. All working well, all second nature. Your shoulders feel more relaxed. Ironic, considering you’ve been in shooting stance for most of forty minutes.

It’s been a good session and you have a meeting – another bloody meeting –in twenty minutes. So one last thing to let off steam. Hmmmm… There’s that new weapon that Simon’s been working on, just sitting on the bench. He says it’s something for taking down _blatella asahjenai sapien_. Impressive given their resistance to tranqs and volts.

You set the active target course – one of James’s mechanical wonders. Hit the button and the robots start skittering about. The power button on the weapon takes a bit of finding, but then it’s all blinking green lights. Sight a target, breathe, and…

“Bloody Hell!”

_Now_  
Solitude. Everything in you is craving solitude. You’ve got to get out of this room. Zimmerman’s spent three hours going over the past two months – and 113 years – to show how the Sanctuary network ended up where it did. A tangled tale of Hollow Earth insurgents, genocidal politicians, and Magnus's plans within plans.

Finally, Zimmerman calls for a break. You pick up your tablet and down the last of your not-coffee. If only there were time to find a firing range and blast the hell out of some defenseless targets. You weave your way out of the room, acknowledging the greetings of the other Sanctuary heads. It takes longer than you'd like. Eventually you find yourself on a pathway along one wall of the cavern.

It's been a long time since you walked without purpose. To busy putting out fires, trying to keep it all together. James used to insist you join him on his rambles occasionally – 'we'd best get some sun on that skin before you're paler than Tesla' - but that was time for learning from the master of observation. Now you just want to be alone in your head.

Everything Zimmerman said in that meeting grated like sand against skin. At first, your irritation had been directed at him, but something in his voice made you realize that he had been in the dark, too. Knowing that Magnus had hidden all this from her chosen lieutenant makes you feel slightly less betrayed. Slightly.

You pick up a handful of gravel. There's a small pool to one side of the waterfall, barely visible from here. Stone after stone lands in the water. Your mind clears.

"As much as I admire your skill, Declan," an amused voice comes from behind you, "I rather think the Mishupishu brood would prefer if you left them in peace."

The voice is feminine, British, and painfully familiar. It can't be. You take a deep breath and turn around.

“Bloody Hell!"

* * *

**1600**

_Then_  
When the days are quiet, you and James have tea together mid-afternoon. It’s supposed to be a meeting. More often, it’s James telling you a tale from his past.

You like hearing about James’s past. It’s a sight better than talking about your own. Still, when he first told you the truth about himself, you refused to believe him. It was easier to accept mermaids and lizard people than the idea that you were working for Sherlock Holmes. But you came around, because he always tells you the truth. Always. Of course, some of the truths are so crazy it’s hard to believe they’re real.

“You mean the Hound of the Baskervilles was a HAP?”

“My dear boy, what else could she be?”

You stare at him. “Wait, the Hound of the Baskervilles was _female_?”

James laughs. “Oh, Declan, only you would find that more amazing than the fact that she was a HAP.”

You feel yourself blushing. Your mum taught you that you should treat a woman with respect and gentleness. Twelve years in the forces and four years in this job and it still feels odd to fight a woman – human or abnormal. Even when you know she could beat you bloody.

“The female of any species can be violent in the right, or wrong, circumstances,” James says mildly. “Imagine how your mother would behave if someone threatened everything and everyone she loved.”

You grin. “She’d tear them to pieces. And spit on the remains,” you say fondly.

James winces. “Blood-thirsty woman.”

“I’ll tell her you said that,” you threaten. “You’ll never get shortbread for Christmas again.”

James gives an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, don’t. I live for those biscuits. Now, do you want to hear the rest of the story, or not?”

_Now_  
It’s quiet in the conference room. Magnus spent the past four hours telling her story and answering questions. Finally, she sends everyone away with the promise of one-on-one conversations. Before you can escape the room and find the weapons range, Zimmerman blocks your way.

“Magnus wants to see you.”

Part of you is pleased – like when you were a lad and got picked first for the side. The other part of you isn’t sure you can face Magnus right now. You’re still furious. You only managed to be civil on the walk back from the waterfall by biting the inside of your cheek so hard it bled.

Now you're sitting across from her and you can't think of a word to say. This woman rescued you from yourself after the military tossed you out like so much refuse. She took a chance on you, the career soldier dishonourably discharged for doing what you thought was right (saving an abnormal while you were at it). Talked you out of a black hole of depression and hate, her calm acceptance of your anger and fear washing them away. She showed you the reality behind what the army – and you, on the bad days – thought were delusions. She delivered you to James, who introduced you to a world that was full of mysteries and monsters but still made more sense than the one you'd left.

In many ways, she saved your life. Right now, though, you could cheerfully strangle her.

"Declan, I know you're angry with me," she begins. You try not to laugh. Her cool voice with its unplaceable accent washes over you and eventually you start to listen. Her explanations sound reasonable but don't answer your biggest question.

You interrupt her. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

A long pause. She glances out the windows at the assembled humans and abnormals.

“I’ve been planning this for so very long, Declan. I doubt you can imagine what it’s like, living in the shadows for over a century. Not being able to say anything for fear of diverting the timeline, of harming everything and everyone I love. That kind of discretion is hard to break out of in mere months. My silence was to protect you, even when I could see it hurt you. You understand, don’t you, Declan?”

It’s an explanation, not the apology you wanted. Then again, this is Helen Magnus. It’s as close to an apology as you’re going to get. You nod.

“Good. Now, do you want to hear the rest?”

* * *

**1830**

_Then_  
You pass the brown sauce to Simon and laugh at the look of disgust on James's face.

"What?" Simon asks, coating his dinner thoroughly.

"Sacrilege," James announces. "Civilized people," he gestures at his own plate, "use gravy, not that bottled stuff."

Simon just smirks and shoves a slice of roast into his mouth. He chews for a long moment, then replies "Brown sauce is a product of human ingenuity. Current notions of civilization value ingenuity over tradition. Ergo, brown sauce is more civilized than gravy."

James tips an invisible hat to Simon's logic. He responds with "Hypertension is a product of brown sauce, and an instrument of natural selection. I wish you luck explaining the Darwinian validity of your blood pressure to Molly."

The doctor's head bobs up. She blinks at James. "Hmmm? What?"

You grin at her owlish look. Her tablet is turned so no one else can see the screen – sure sign that it's a novel, not a scientific journal.

"Good book, Mol?" A faint blush rises on her cheeks. A romance novel, then. You're about to start teasing her when James turns to you.

"Declan, my boy, would you care to explain what happened to my active target course?"

It's your turn to feel heat in your face.

"Weapons testing?" you attempt.

Simon laughs. Molly snorts quietly from behind her tablet and holds up a finger. The three of you wait until she's ready - Mol runs at her own speed. After a moment she turns the tablet to face the rest of the table.

"Declan MacRae, fearless conqueror of robots," she announces.

It's a security video feed. You watch yourself fumble with the gun for a long moment -"really, Dex, a five year old could have found that switch faster" scoffs Simon - and turn to face the course. There's an expectant silence as you watch yourself choose a target. Everyone at the table knows what comes next, but...

A bright flash. The spider-like robot you chose is covered in a pale mess of _something_. The weapon's charge is so effective that the target freezes on the spot. You're glad there's no audio on the feed - you don't want to re-hear the sound of stripping gears and snapping machinery.

"I don't remember clearing that gun for testing," Simon says. "Although I'm well pleased with its performance."

"I'm not," James says, frowning. "I expect it will take weeks to repair the damage done by that..." he searches for the right word.

"Goo?" Simon offers. James's lips twitch.

"Indeed. Goo." He is on the verge of a smile and you hide your own grin in case the scolding isn't over. "Declan, I believe that you have forfeited your weekend liberty in exchange for," a pause, and then he's smiling, "goo duty."

_Now_  
“Can you pass the mint sauce?” Henry’s voice is close to your right ear.

You snag the bowl out from under Kate’s waving hands and pass it across. The HAP nods gratefully and scoops several spoonfuls onto his samosas. Your eyes water at the sight – Herusan mint sauce has real bite to it.

“Trying to destroy your taste buds, Henry?” Erika asks from across the table.

“Learning to love the local cuisine, honey,” he answers. “Gotta get ready for the wedding feast.” He takes a bite and chokes. Erika calmly hands him a glass of milky tea.

You’re glad to see her. It’s been a while since she’s been in to visit Dr. Molly. It looks like gradual pregnancy agrees with her – she’s smiling and round all over.

“How are you?” you ask, meeting her eyes.

“Oh, Perry and I are in fine form.” She pats her abdomen. “Tell Mol I’ll come see her soon.”

“Perry?” Kate asks, swiveling in her chair and bumping your arm. “It’s a boy? You’re not naming him Will?”

Erika laughs. “We haven’t asked about the sex yet. Perry is just our little family nickname – it’s short for ‘parasite’.”

Awkward silence falls over the table. Then Abby laughs. “Well really, who at this table _hasn’t_ had another creature living inside their body? At least you _like_ yours.”

You can’t help but chuckle and soon everyone is laughing.

Conversation picks up around the table. Tesla stops by to trade friendly insults with Kate before chasing after Magnus. Lost friends are toasted. New friends are introduced. Everyone talks about the changes that have happened. No one talks about the changes that are coming.

* * *

**2230**

_Then_  
Almost time for sleep. First, stretches that James showed you, so you don’t wake up in a knot. Strip, scrub, clean teeth, sleep pants. Routine, slowing the mind down after the day.

Twenty minutes with a book – Iain M Banks, because even the Sanctuary can’t put you off classic sci-fi – and then lights-out. Breathe out the stress of the day; breathe in relaxation and sleep. Breathe out stress; breathe in sleep.

Breathe out; breathe in.

Out. In.

Sleep.

_Now_  
Almost time for sleep. If it weren’t for jet-lag and information overload, sleep would be impossible. As it is, you could drop onto that bed and sleep like a child. First, though, stretch out your sore muscles. Strip out of the scratchy not-cotton, scrub, clean teeth, put on more not-cotton. Try to set aside all the day’s surprises.

No book. Dammit. That’s what happens when they put you on a plane without your go bag. Maybe there’s something worth reading on the tablet. You page through the e-book library until you stumble on _Hound of the Baskervilles._ Perfect. It’s only right that a little bit of James is here with you on this first day in the new Sanctuary.

You read the story – picturing James all the while – then lights out. You focus on your breathing, trying to centre yourself. Breathe out the stress; breathe in relaxation. Breathe out stress; breathe in sleep. Breathe out; breathe in.

Breathe out; breathe in.

Out. In.

Out. In.

Out.

In.

Sleep.


End file.
